


Phonies

by rachhell



Series: south park drabble bomb [3]
Category: South Park
Genre: Fluff, High School, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, South Park Drabble Bomb, Studying, silly stoned boyfriends, this is silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-25 23:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12046629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: "I can’t believe you even do this at all. Like, Butters Stotch is a pothead, who the hell woulda thought?"=====Catcher in the Rye is a stupid book. Kenny can think of better things to do than analyzing whiny-ass Holden Caulfield... like smoking up his boyfriend.written for the south park drabble bomb september '17 prompt, day 4 - study.





	Phonies

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing Bunny! I never gave much thought to this ship one way or another until recently, but I'm sort of falling in love with it it after reading a few great fics :) Silly fluff, silly boyfriends.

“Aw, geez, don't light that in here! I'm gonna get grounded!”

“Jesus, Butters, I can’t believe your parents still ground you. That's so fuckin’ gay.” Kenny set down the pipe on Butters’ bed, next to his notebook. “Dude…this Holden guy sucks. Are we supposed to, I dunno. Identify with him or somethin’? ‘Cause I don't. Fuckin' spoiled, rich asshole.”

Butters’ face scrunched up. “Oh, I don’t know. I don't think we're ‘sposed to, not necessarily.” Butters was always so organized when he studied or wrote - his desk a veritable office of color-coded binders, containers of clips, pens, and post-its, and even a goddamn desk calendar. As the sun was setting outside, through Butters’ open window, his laptop screen began to cast a blue glow on his impossibly porcelain skin. “I betcha Eric does. I can just see it! _Ey, you phonies!_ I’ll give you ten bucks if that’s not what his paper is about.”

This sent both boys into a fit of giggles. Kenny was belly-down on Butters’ bed, spread out in a haphazard flurry of notebooks, chewed-up pencils, and books. His copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ was torn at the corner and cracked in the middle, bent from being indiscriminately stuffed into his void of a backpack. He didn’t have a laptop, but that was okay. Butters would let him type up his essay after he was finished with the computer, and he’d probably sit right next to him, timidly critiquing every word with cautious pats to Kenny’s shoulder.

“Whatcha writing yours on?” Kenny asked.

“His hat. I’m just about done! How ‘bout you?”

“The ducks, maybe? Somethin’ about growing up. I dunno. I’ll figure it out.” The margins of his notebook were covered with inexpert doodles - dicks, hearts, little winged stick figures - and one of two possible outlines for his five-page essay sat half-finished on the college ruled page. “I always figure it out.”

Butters laughed, or maybe it was a sigh. “I know that, Ken. And yours’ll be good. They always are. I wish I could do that. Just wing it, like you.” His eyes were cast downward at his brown carpet, an expression of what could have been either dejection or reverent appreciation upon his face. Perhaps, it was both. “My dad says planning is what gets you an A, and A’s are what get you into college.”

Kenny had flipped over onto his back, his head right at the foot of Butters’ bed, shaggy blonde hair flopping over the edge. “Chill. You’re fine,” he said. “Write your paper, Leopold.”

“Oh, Kenny...Don’t call me that.” Despite his protestation, Butters smiled and spun his desk chair back around. The quick, light clicks of his keyboard were really quite satisfying sounds, Kenny thought, as he tossed and turned upon the bed, threading his pencil through his fingers. Every few minutes, he jotted a half-formed idea in his notebook. _Holden’s fear of intimacy is inextricably tied into his fear of growing up._ And _cynicism as a defense mechanism_ \- underneath that, smaller and in parenthesis, he scribbled _Stan Marsh lol._ And _ducks = youth._ Another doodle of a dick. And _Leopold Butters Stotch + Kenneth McCormick 4 ever._

He was getting restless. “Sure you don't wanna?” Kenny dangled the pipe from his thumb and forefinger.

Butters’ typing sounded harsher, stronger. “It's not that I don't _wanna_ ,” he said. His head tilted to the side as he finished his paragraph with a flourish of his hands and spun back around. “My parents,” he said, sadly, without further explanation. It never needed explaining. “And _you_ still have to write your essay, buddy.”

“Oh, please. You and I both know I can bang that thing out high as fuck, and still get at least a B-minus,” Kenny retorted. “Shit, I’d take a C. C’s get degrees.”

“But, my-”

“Your parents only let me come here ‘cause they think I'm retarded and need help with school.” Kenny hadn't meant for his voice to sound as harsh as it did, so he took care to soften his next words. “I have my ways. Shove a towel under the door, and febreeze that shit.” He smirked and waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a laugh from Butters.

“Why can’t I ever say no to you?” Butters rolled his eyes, but his broad smile betrayed him.

Kenny grinned back. “It’s my boyish good looks. My charm. My _charisma_.”

“Just… Wait til I'm done, okay? Oh, my dad’s gonna kill me,” he said, shakily.

“Your dad is _always_ gonna kill you. They're not gonna know, anyway.” Kenny leafed through his book, pausing at pages he'd dog-eared even though he wasn't supposed to deface school property, glancing at circled paragraphs and underlined sentences but not really reading any of them. He was, of course, lying. They always knew. Mr. Stotch’s stern scolding voice reverberated through his mind - _That McCormick boy is such a bad influence, Butters!_ It wasn’t untrue, either - Butters never would have tried half the things they’d done together, on his own.  “How much ya have left?”

“Just the conclusion. Fifteen more minutes,” he chirped, and Kenny, rather than futilely try to work on his own essay, watched him. As always during their study sessions, Butters was pure, nervous concentration, chewing on his lower lip and shifting his gaze from his written outline to his computer and back. It was mesmerizing, watching him, the way he nodded with a soft “mhmm” when he finished a particularly difficult sentence, and especially the way his tongue peeked between his lips as he thought of what to write next.

“C’mon, hurry up. Let's get stoned and make out,” he said.

When he received an affirmative noise in response, Kenny got to work. Rather than go out and get a towel from the linen closet and risk questions from the Stotches, he rolled up the throw blanket he’d been cuddling with, and took care to seal the crack under Butters’ door. He was happy Butters was the kind of person who had scented candles and spray air freshener just laying around. At his own house, Kenny never would have had to hide it, not that it’d be noticed in the first place. Carelessly, he shoved his schoolwork back into his backpack, and stretched himself across the well-made bed. He watched, and he waited.

“And, done! Oh…” Butters looked around the room, wide-eyed. “Kenny… I just feel like they’re gonna _know_ , and I’ll be in trouble!”

“Fuck ‘em. You get in trouble all the time. Get over here,” Kenny said, patting the bed; Butters joined him, and planted a kiss on his cheek, and they began. “I can’t believe you even do this at all. Like, Butters Stotch is a pothead, who the hell woulda thought?” He laughed, and so did Butters.

“Well, it’s nice,” Butters replied. “It’s nice with _you_.”

Kenny rarely coughed when he smoked, but Butters did, every time, something that Kenny, for some reason, found adorable. “G-g….geez.” He was hacking after his third hit, red-faced, eyes squinted shut. “I can never get this to work right,” he sputtered through his coughs.

“I’ll help.” Kenny smiled, taking the piece from Butters and sparking up another hit. “C’mere,” he choked out, a small puff of smoke escaping his mouth, and pulled Butters close by the collar of his t-shirt. Their lips met, and Kenny exhaled. Butters’ lips were soft and full against Kenny’s as he inhaled, his tongue darting out to brush against Kenny’s lower lip as he pulled away, and held his breath. He exhaled without any troubles, and, simultaneously, they melted into the bed, close together.

“Feelin’ it?” Kenny murmured.

“Oh…boy. I’m feelin’ it, all right. I’m all floaty.” His eyes were half-shut and his face the very look of utter relaxation as Kenny ran his fingers through Butters’ wispy blond hair. “When you do that, it feels like… I feel it in every strand of my hair.”

“Weird you’re so… floaty? You usually laugh at everything.” Kenny chuckled to himself, and kept stroking. “Do me. I wanna see what you mean.”

When his hands threaded through Kenny’s shaggy, unwashed hair, it was, at that moment, the best thing he had ever felt. Every touch, every stroke, was magnified by a hundred, and he pulled the other boy closer, by his waist, kissing him and running his hands across his shoulders, his chest, down to the small of his back, and -

“Hold on a second!” Butters reached behind him to grab  his wrist, stopping him from going any lower. “You still have to write your paper, and I am _not_ gonna let you fail this time, mister!"

Kenny kissed him, hard and slow. “How ‘bout we pull an all-nighter?”

The sun had set, and, illuminated only by the laptop screen, Butters kissed him back. That was all the answer Kenny needed. His essay could wait.


End file.
